Calm
by DreamersEclipse
Summary: The Blade brings Dean calm. This isn't a good thing. (Warning: Death and gore. This story is basically pure angst, not for the feint of heart.)


Calm

A/N: This idea came to me while I watched the latest episodes of season nine. The blade and its effect on Dean.

Warning: Gore and sort of character death with hints of Debriel (Dean/Gabriel), Angst lots and lots of angst.

*Story Start*

He felt like he was drowning. As if he were viciously held under the black waves of an ocean storm forty degrees below zero and as destructive as the Floods from the Bible, tearing apart lands and limbs like the insects they were in comparison to the dominating and consuming force. His lungs felt as though they were both ice and fire at the same time, freezing and burning from inhaling the water. All he could do was thrash around in the stifling, suffocating darkness; never coming up for air because he couldn't tell which way was up or down and the torrent made sure he would never know.

"Dean?"

He finally looked up at his younger brother. The look he was being given, worry and concern must have meant that he had been calling out to him for a while. "What is it, Sam?" His voice sounded gruff even to his ears. Not like he cared.

The look grew on Sam's face instead of letting up at the reassurance that his brother wasn't a mute yet. In fact, a little bit of fear seemed to flicker into his brown eyes, eyes that flickered to Dean's left hand but quickly returned to hold his own green ones. "What are you doing with the First Blade?"

Dean narrowed his eyes, about to ask what the hell he was on about then looked down at his left hand where he found his knuckles were as pale as a sheet from holding on to the blade's hilt so tightly. His heart sank and he felt dizzy and disoriented. As if another huge wave pulled him under and began tossing him around like a rag doll. When he tried to loosen his grip he found that his knuckles hurt from the release of pressure. It clattered to the floor as his sore fingers flexed out the stiffness. "Nothing…" He muttered in reply to Sam, eyes fixated on his pink knuckles and the jagged blade at his feet.

"Alright…" Sam started but he sounded far from it, "…how's about I put it away then? I'll just put it in the storage room with the rest of our hunting stuff and then-"

"No." He said evenly, cutting his brother off. His mind was so foggy, so full of water and drowned, obscured, muffled. How did he even get to the library? When did he pick up the first blade? The reasonable side of him was concerned and yet those questions and worries were all washed down by the blood pounding in his ears that demanded he pick the blade back up.

"Dean-" The taller young man started only to stop at another of Dean's brash interruptions.

"I got it, Sam."

He bent down to pick it up. His reflexes went haywire when Sam jumped to retrieve before he did saying loudly, "Here let me." In protest.

Dean elbowed Sam harshly in the chest yelling, "Back off!" and causing him to stagger away. The blade was back in his hands and the wave's throwing his mind into chaos stopped moving, just gently cocooning him underwater where he still couldn't breathe but it was too peaceful for movement anyway. When he saw the hurt look on Sam's face a part of him couldn't believe what he had just done. He blinked uncertainly a few moments before ducking his head and leaving the room to return to his own insanely silent quarters.

When he got there he expected to feel an overflow of rage or shame. When he felt nothing but distilled calm it was so overpowering that he couldn't find the piece of mind to care that he wasn't feeling human anymore. He held up the blade, still looking down at its archaic form. It felt like it was burning in his palm and yet that same flame was holding back the chaos of the storm.

Dean teared his eyes away from it and locked his bedroom door before crawling onto his bed and lying flat out on his back with limbs slightly outstretched and the blade resting in his tight grip. The darkness came forth again, darkness and the rush of waves to keep him under…

"_Dean."_

A familiar voice called out to him but it was too dark to see.

"_Dean, baby, put down the blade."_

He could see, but barely. There was a dark rim to his sight and a night blue tint over everything. His mother was standing in front of him, in her white nightgown. Fear was painted across her face as she backed up and repeated her words in a pleading tone, hands up in a placating manner. He weakly felt himself step toward her but like the voices everything he felt was muffled, misplaced, as if he were a prisoner in his own mind.

"_Dean, you need to let it go…"_

He watched in numb horror as his gaze went down to the first blade for a moment before he looked back up at his mother and then stabbed her in the stomach. The blood that spilled out felt as hot as fire, spreading over his hand before he ripped the blade back out. Dean wanted to scream. He couldn't be sure if he was or not but it felt as though his mouth were super glued shut while a primal roar of agony belted in his brain.

"_Dean."_

The next voice was his dad's. When his vision cleared he found his vision was the same, as if he were wearing sunglasses and he still had no control. This time his dad was holding a gun at him, a sawed Winchester rifle with the barrel pointed right at him. The look on his father's face was pained but determined.

"_I didn't raise you like this. Put the blade down, son."_

Dean took a step forward and John pulled the trigger. All he could feel was a small pressure press into his chest then disappear. John cursed and went to reload the rifle but Dean was quicker and rushed him, driving the blade into his father's gut the same way he did with his mother. The body dropped and his vision turned dark once more.

This same process continued. It seemed to go on forever. All people that he knew and loved. He kept on killing them. Jessica, Ben, Jo, Hellen, Bobby. Everyone. All of their blood on his hands.

It was torture. And at the same time he didn't feel anything.

"_Deano, Deano, Deano."_

A new chipper, scolding voice breached his ears. The view cleared up to reveal none other than Gabriel. He looked the same way he did the night he did at the Elysian Hotel. Green jacket, slicked back hair, a cocky grin offsetted by sad honey eyes.

They were in the motel room. The same one. Gabriel was standing in the corner, right in front of him.

"_To think, the apocalypse was the least of your worries. Makes you wonder if my death even meant anything, am I right?"_

He took a step forward but the shorter man threw his hands up quickly in a no harm gesture.

"_Easy there, big guy. That blade may be your God Mode weapon but do you seriously think I'd let you catch me? Trickster? Archangel? Yeah, I don't think so. Instead of waving that thing around, how's about you just put it down. I'm not here to fight…And neither are you."_

Dean gripped the blade tighter but didn't make to move any closer.

"_Fine. I see how it is." _Calculating gold eyes narrowed at him. He sidestepped, beginning to pace around him although the movements were cautious and calculated. _"You know it isn't calm that you're feeling right now. Oh, don't look so surprised Deano, we're inside your mind right now. And I can feel it inside of you…Poison. The First Blade is drug, narcotic, whatever. It gets you high. Makes you feel all tingly and relaxed. And it's taking you over, bit by bit. One piece of your soul at a time."_ Gabriel had slowly circled him, eyes never leaving him. Then he came to a stop right in front of him, face so close that he could feel hot breath on his lips as the archangel leaned on his tippy toes to stare down at his lips. Dean only wondered how he could feel the heat emanating off of him when everything was supposed to be numb.

"_You need to let it go, Dean. It's slowly killing you…Dean, drop the blade."_ A soft whisper brushing his lips as a hand curled around his. The moment Gabriel's fingers made contact with the blade Dean jerked away from him. Gabriel just stared at him calmly. Then he shrugged, looking nonplussed at the rejection, _"I warned you."_

"_Dean?"_ Another voice chimed in. Dean whipped his head to the door where Sam was standing there, staring at him with concern and fear in his eyes. He could feel the blade heat up in his hand trying to drown out whatever clarity Gabriel had drudged forth. His hand was shaking violently at the resistence he was putting up. The urge to kill Sam. It was overwhelming. He knew it was going to happen. He knew he couldn't stop it. The one thing he swore to never do.

Slow steps. Sam didn't move. The worry creased his brow as he drew near. Then finally, he put a hand on Sam's shoulder. _"Dean?" _His younger brother asked one more time and he drove the knife into Sam's stomach. The one thing he swore to always do. Protect his little brother. And he was it, he was the one who killed Sam. And the worst part was he didn't feel anything.

All he felt was calm.


End file.
